God Can Be Funny
by Lia Cozack
Summary: Santana Lopez at age twenty-seven retells her love story and life, giving commentary on her previous thoughts and opinions.


God can be funny.

I used to think that God hated people like me; people who liked someone like themselves—girls who love girls. But Brittany is nothing like me. She might have the same anatomy, but her spirit couldn't be more different: she's pure, like fresh snow. She's the perfect wild flower in a field that no one will see and no one will appreciate, because God Himself hid her in the field of the others, and she was obscured. I believe he was waiting for the right person to find her or more like the right person to show her to, and that happened to be me. Me. So, God doesn't hate me. He can't. Because then why would he let me see His wild flower? Why was I chosen? For that reason I laugh at bigots who preach the hateful God.

God gave me her.

I used to think that I was going to hell. Isn't that what His followers tell people like me: girls who love girls? How can hell be next for me, when I'm living in heaven now? Kissing Brittany, holding Brittany, talking to Brittany, making Brittany laugh, making love to Brittany…I'm in heaven. Why would God give me heaven now, only to send me to hell later? That certainly is nonsensical.

If you could only see they way she looks at me. The sparkle in her eyes when beholds me. If you could only see through my eyes or experience one day as me and see for yourself the glow around Brittany and how my body responds to her presence. It is otherworldly. It is surely meant to be.

God made me this way.

I can remember when Brittany and I were six years old. We were at the playground at Hemlock Park, playing in the sandbox next to the jungle gym, making sand castles as if they would stay there forever. Young boys in overalls and Velcro sneakers would approach her, my sunshine girl, and try to get her to play with them, and even then I would be protective of her. I'd grab her hand and shield her and stick out my tongue at the stinky boys and say, 'She's mine. My Bwrit-any!' She would give me wet cheek-kisses showing gratitude that I kept those crumby boys away and I can remember blushing and wiping the wetness off and blushing some more. I knew then that she had my heart.

God is good.

As we grew older so did our intentions. Our first kiss at twelve, second base at fourteen, sex at fifteen, great sex at sixteen, and every year after it seemed to keep getting better. Though, it was our love that was growing stronger every year and that was what made our relations seem to get better, like the aging process of wine.

I can remember the first time I thought about Brittany in a sexual way. We were twelve: the time of training bras.

As children we would bathe together under parental supervision until the age of seven. After seven we would still bathe together but it was more like playing together. We would play games with duckies, sea monsters, and sailboats. And for the most part we were clothed and we would make a mess of the bathroom and get a scolding from my Mom.

It was when we were twelve when we naturally stopped being so careless and free about our bodies. I don't think Brittany felt as strong about it as I did, because one time while we were playing at her house she invited me to take a bath with her. Not a playful bath, a cleansing bath. It was I who told her that it wasn't a good idea. And when she asked me why it wasn't, I told her that it was because I was self-conscious. Obviously I didn't use that sophisticated of a term then, but I had said something like it to get that very message across. Of course, she asked me what I meant in general and I explained to her, like I did many things, all the time, that it was because our bodies were changing and 'girls are not supposed to do that at our age'. She looked confused then; I can still visualize that very face she made, she still makes it sometimes— it was and is still endearing. Her response—which now makes me laugh, but at the time freaked me out—was: 'So what? You mean this?' she said pulling down her pants and underwear revealing to me her mound that had patch of light blonde hair. I remember my twelve-year-old-self being taken aback and wanting to shield my eyes, but refraining, in order to not make her feel weird or unattractive. All I remember saying was something along the lines of: 'Yeah exactly…that...' very awkwardly. I bet I was as red as a stop sign. The part which is interesting was, even though I was a little unnerved, I felt something in my heart, like some warmth, and also in my mind I remember wanting to see a better view her _private area _or even touch it. And so, that was the first time I felt sexually attracted to her.

She did ask me if I had the same thing, and I did say yes. Though, my pubic hair was more prominent than hers. I had a dark untidy mess of hair, because I didn't know one shaved it, and, what twelve year old owned a razor? She did ask to see me and I complied out of fairness, though I didn't really want to. Brittany did, even then, make me feel safe. We both laughed then, saying, 'How did it get there? Was it cold?' and other cute naïve questionings—it really eased my tention about the whole situation.

It wasn't long after that when we discovered each other's boobs. She would poke fun at mine, or, honestly just poke at them. 'So squishy,' she would say. While watching movies she would lie on my chest and use my breast as a pillow. She never coped a feel, but she still was going a little far, but that's Brittany: completely unaware of personal space and social norms. I still remember the feeling of heat between my legs, as she lied on my chest.

Around fifteen when we were both deep into puberty was when the masturbation discussion happened. Like usual, she was the one to bring it up out of the blue, casually asking me if I did it. I answered with a harsh 'no', but then softly asked with curiosity if she had. She said that she talked about it with her older sister after her sister explained to her what sex was. I know I knew what sex was and masturbation before she even brought it up to me. I didn't act like I did though, I guess I wanted to make her feel comfortable. So she continued by saying that she tried to masturbate though she had no success of anything happening, she assumed she was doing it wrong and she wanted to ask me if I did it correctly, but since I said I hadn't—which wasn't true—she was disappointed and I guess sexually frustrated. I told her to watch some porn or do some Internet research but she said she didn't want to risk getting caught or get a virus from the websites, which were totally understandable reasons. So, I asked spontaneously with some deviousness if I could help her. I confessed that I had lied, and that I actually did have an orgasm before. She seemed pleasantly surprised and I was scared to death. She always seemed fine and ready for anything, she is just amazing like that. I didn't really know what would come next, but I knew it was something that could be troublesome to me, at least mentally, but at the same time I wanted it too.

I was an ostentatious fifteen year-old. I watched more porn that I would like anyone to know and I was interested in adult-themed television and I knew exactly what a lesbian was from porn and television and though I was a virgin I knew how to have sex and all types of ways to have sex and I knew the female anatomy and I had knowledge of the typical erogenous zones. So mentally, I felt experienced. Don't I sound it?

We had kissed before. Pecks on the mouth for goodbyes and hellos, done in private of course. I also would give her neck kisses when she invited me over to tell me she was sad about something. And she would kiss me on the cheek if I made her happy or did or said something nice. And always, every time, I had felt it meant something different to me than it did to her. Everything was fun and sunshine and rainbows to her. I wish it were more rainbows than sunshine to her, if you know what I mean. I think it was definitely at fifteen when I knew I was at least bisexual, if not all the way gay. And I wasn't always okay with it. I was depressive about it and tended to be self-destructive by using alcohol and prescription pills to get my mind off of it. I think Brittany always knew I was a lesbian, but never directly said anything. To me, my best friend was as straight as a board, until she said something to me that I would never forget as long as I live: 'Can you help me have an orgasm?'

It was _she_ who asked _me _to have _sex _with _her_. Let me just point that out.

You could just imagine what I was thinking. I think I misheard her, but I totally didn't. I remember being really emotional and on edge and it seemed like time was moving slowly and awkwardly. Our first time wasn't making love, unfortunately. Looking back I wish that it was done with feelings and with proper premeditation and discussed thoroughly, but that's never how life is. What I would describe it as overal was the first time I was beckoned to cross the line of friendship into the gray zone between friends and lovers.

It went down like this:

First I asked her what turned her on, and for her to think about it while I touched her. She replied, 'I'm here with you, why do I need my mind on something other than the present?' I'm totally making her sound more romantic and well-spoken, which don't get me wrong, Brittany is a genius, but hey, this is my twenty-seven year old self retelling my younger years, and of course I'm making it sound more mature. But, in essence her reply was the first time she unmistakably admitted her attraction towards me, and I was beyond flattered, well yes flattered but what made me feel born-again was that she gave me hope that we could be together, like together together.

A funny detail I remember was that I reached into my panties and felt my wetness before doing anything just to prove to myself then that I was definitely gay. And yes, I was soaked.

After she underhandedly complimented me, I laid a kiss on her mouth, gradually adding my tongue later. I remember her being right there with every stroke. We just knew each other; we had this sense of movement, like a keen intuition about the other. It was the first time that became blatantly apparent to me. It was the most passionately I had ever kissed her up to that point. And it felt so right.

I instinctually kissed down her neck, and while I was doing that, I could feel her squirming under me. I took that as a cue to start removing some of her clothes. I lifted the hem of her shirt, but she abruptly got up and removed it herself, along with her maiden form bra; oh, the days of training bras were over, oh happy day.

She gave me a look. Not a challenging look, but I swear it was something like love. I mirrored her movements and got undressed too. Our naked torsos then collided and our tongues met in moment of passion. I fell in love.

She stroked up and down my naked back and had my full permission to rest her hands on my clad ass. I even took her hands and guided them there. Her hands didn't do much resting though; she did a lot of squeezing of my virgin behind. I was so caught up in the pleasure of sensual kissing, that I hardly noticed the burn and throb of my sex, it could have set the smoke detector off.

I wanted to take lead; I was excited to. I really wanted to impress her with my sexual knowledge and show her my overall sexiness. To demonstrate my hotness, I trailed soft kisses down her stomach leading to her sex, like I had seen in a porno that really turned me on. Giving me exactly the response I was hoping for, she looked down at me and said in a whisper, 'you are _so_ hot' and like the lioness I was, I gave her a seductive kiss that I swear took her breath away.

My cat-like attitude soon dissolved after the fear of the unknown set it. 'Alright,' I thought, 'the next step is actually to have sex.''How the fuck am I going to do this?' So then I said something to her like, 'how do you want to do this?' And she said something like, 'I don't know, who undresses first?' I think I told her I wanted to just pleasure her since that's how this all started, the desire for her to have an orgasm, so I told her that I will take off her panties and use my fingers to help her out, so to speak. She was fine with that, but she then said that she wanted to make me feel good too—that made me have an aneurism

I took off her panties, like the champ I thought I was, and rubbed her thighs gently to ease her fears. I spread her thighs and was welcomed by the sight of her neatly shaven pussy. I remember being shocked that someone like her had the know-how to shave or the want to be shaven. To me, Brittany was earthy and sheltered, and so I always pictured her having a Little House on the Prairie bush. But, nevertheless, I was presently surprised. I gave her a smile and crept my hand to touch her _there. _She was warm, soft, and wet. And the feeling of her made me breathe deeply to calm myself, because I was getting increasingly nervous.

I massaged her folds and played with her pussy lips. I stretched her folds so I could see her clitoris better. It was a tiny little bead of flesh no larger than a pea. I flicked it with the pad of my index finger several times and it made her moan in pleasure. I didn't want to speak, but I needed to communicate to see what she wanted. I wouldn't just do what I felt like she wanted, I needed to know. I asked her if she ever fingered herself and she said yes, but she said it never felt good, she said it hurt all the times she'd tried it. I didn't like penetration either, but I wanted to give it a try on her, maybe if done correctly and by someone else she might like it. I asked her if it would be okay if I used one finger to try it out, also I said that she could tell me to stop at any time. It was important for me to stress that to her. She agreed to a single finger, so I sucked my index finger getting it nice and lubricated and steadied it at her entrance. I remember entering her with delicate grace. I remember sliding my finger in and out all the way and how her walls felt. I remember her being as tight as anything and her space wasn't very accommodating to my three-inch finger. But that's all I can remember about that. What I do remember vaguely was the sounds she made, which were the most delightful screams and moans. I know I had the time of my life looking at her nude body reacting to my ministrations, and the kisses that proceeded where the best.

After I gave her her first orgasm she was too shy to give me one back, even though she promised me, but I respected her completely and didn't get so down about it. I was still grateful for the amount she did do. She did remove my panties and touch me a little bit, and it did feel amazing. It was the kissing that really made up for her not pleasuring me fully. And the kissing—_oh my god_! It was the most sensual tongue love that was just as platonic as Ennis and Jack were from the film _Brokeback Mountain. _The taste of her lips and the feeling of her tongue dancing with mine was amazing. Our tongues were basically having sex with each other.

After we were finished I remember cuddling for a while. The lasting memories of the whole experience were the thoughts I had about it afterwards. They were mixed and some of them were deep issues that till this day I still haven't fully resolved. What I felt was guilt about the whole sexual experience, thinking about what my parents would think, and if I offended God in some way. I think my biggest issue was faith first, parent's disapproval and judgement second, and my own identity crises third, but the third one cut the deepest because you can always be an atheist and tell your parents to fuck off, but it's the hardest to accept yourself someone you have no choice but to be everyday you wake up.

When it came to Brittany and I after that day, I wasn't sure what our future would be together, but at the time I was really just thinking about what this meant for me: am I gay? And all those other concerns I already mentioned.

And God helped me see it too in time, that I, Santana Lopez, am in fact a lesbian.


End file.
